


the significance of colors

by Layni1771



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Beaches, Dancing, Friendship, If you read, Imagery, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Ocean, Romance, Wood carving, chan isn't even referenced by name, happy fandom name guys, i have no idea what to tag this, i'm so lost, the chanho is very light, you'll get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15528240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Layni1771/pseuds/Layni1771
Summary: "And the moonlight danced with the sunrays until one was no more."-unknownMinho spends time with Jeongin by the ocean. It's comfortable, natural, even with all the tragedy they let pile up behind them.





	the significance of colors

**Author's Note:**

> I've been waiting to post this one, and getting our fandom name is the perfect excuse to post for a second time this week. I'm getting progressively worse at tagging but so many of my works have such abstract concepts I have no idea what to put down.  
> In any case, this is not proofread, as always. I hope you enjoy and don't forget to leave a comment if you wish!  
> [Edit on 8/02: Pfft okay half my summary never made it to posting apparently?? Sorry about that.]

_"And the moonlight danced with the sunrays until one was no more."_

_-unknown_

* * *

 

"It's been hard, hasn't it?" Minho blinks in surprise, because Jeongin isn't looking at him as he speaks. He's looking somewhere ahead of them, with eyes that aren't distant but they certainly aren't close, either. They're somewhere between here and there, but Minho can't personally find that small space no matter how much he squints in the same direction. He doesn't quite know what Jeongin is talking about, really. They are simply sitting with their backs to the sea, instead staring at the parking lot that is empty besides Minho's old, beat-up truck. The chairs are low and uncomfortable, but pressed closely together. Months before, Jeongin had broken off an arm from each chair, much to his disdain. Still, the younger had only given him a mischievous smile and leaned into him the next time they went to the beach. Minho sort of accepted it after that, and now he stares at the small distance between them. He wonders why the boy isn't cuddling closely like always.

"What has?" He finally asks, long after the question was strung in the air like fairy lights. The sound of the waves behind them is familiar, and repetitive. Minho likes that about the sea. It's always changing but somehow the same. He wonders if you ever touch the same water of the ocean twice in your life. Will you meet those same particles ever again, or is it a meeting destined to be a forever farewell at the same time? Minho isn't sure if the thought is soothing, but it is something with substance behind it.

Minho hates fake things, and perhaps that is why he is so fond of Jeongin. He is all real. He does not try to hide behind shallow pretenses or perfected words. No, he feels like a human, his skin tastes like a human, his voice sounds like a human, he looks like a human, and he even carries the scent of one. Jeongin is no whisper in the wind, he is no flower in a field, he is real and present and does not pretend to be otherwise. He is someone that Minho can touch and memorize and know. Jeongin is the truth in Minho's disillusioned world. He has been for years, it was as simple as that. A truth.

He observes the way Jeongin's elegant fingers absently draw messy lines in the cold sand. They are so different from his own, which are short and unsuitable to hold. But the younger never seems to mind that and does it anyway. Their hands do not match in the slightest and it's unnatural when they join. Minho stares at the small cuts littering the hands and the small wooden carvings piled up in a small hole in the sand. Some are still bleeding sluggishly, and he can see the redness lingering on the silver of the blade Jeongin uses to carve. There is an urge inside of him to go through his bag that is laying on his other side, to find the salve and bandages that he brings for this reason exactly. But, more than that urge is the knowledge that such a practice is for inside that beat-up truck, and the sandy beaches are for them.

Jeongin and Minho. Minho and Jeongin. Minho and Jeongin and the carvings and Minho dancing himself breathless. That's what the sandy beaches are for.

Honestly, he is shivering. Cold sweat clings to him unpleasantly as he has stopped dancing long ago, but he tries not to mind even with the aching of his lungs. Minho is familiar with these feelings.

"Living like we are," Minho has long forgotten that they were conversing. It happens often that Jeongin will say something confusing, but never reply when Minho inquires. He instead leaves it like a puzzle for the older to solve. He rarely wins those challenges yet Minho doesn't mind. They just add something to the element that is the truth of Jeongin. He doesn't question these things. They're just how it is, and somehow it does suit the both of them.

But they are talking, and Minho considers Jeongin's words finally. At first, he wants to agree with him. Behind his open eyes, scenes are playing in his head. Scenes of laughter popping in the air like bubbles, of late nights underneath blanket forts, of royal blue, of red eyes, of boys without their angel wings flying through the air and tumbling to the ground, of black suits, of ashes. Minho wants to say it's hard, but he thinks again of what comes after these things. Of the securing hugs, of the tender brushes of palms against teary cheeks, of the late nights underneath the stars instead of blanket forts, of the wooden carvings, of the exhausting dancing, of the crumbling cookies for snacks, of the color burnt orange. When he thinks of those things, is it really that hard?

Is it hard to live the way he is, the way they are? Minho does not see many people these days. Jeongin, a handful of friends that understand, his mother sometimes- But he has no job, no real home, no solid connection to the world other than Jeongin. He has his truck and an abandoned trailer home he found ages ago. It isn't his but he makes it that way, fills it with purple jars that hold candles and deeply colored lights that he strings around the top. Lace and orange paper lanterns and old books and mismatched cushions. Tea and dried flowers and pretty things made of wicker and glass. Symbols of the moon and herbs. Jeongin's carvings.

Jeongin is the only one that comes by often. His handful of friends occasionally come alone or in small groups. Once they came all together. It was cramped. Minho's mother has never visited. She never will, but he doesn't hold it against her. He doesn't think she can.

Minho doesn't eat a lot. He likes to eat berries and drink tea and sometimes treat himself to street food when he feels like it. Jeongin brings him cookies. He comes and goes when he pleases, pays with cash more often than not, and gets all of his money from the savings once set aside for college and his bright future. It's not the future he is aiming for anymore, so he doesn't mind using it like this. Minho also thinks his mother transfers more money in every once in a while. He doesn't keep track and waits for the balance on his mother's card that she never used to hit zero. It never does.

Normally he spends his time climbing through forests and up mountains, or dancing in clearings with only the wildlife to see him. He also likes to curl up in the abandoned trailer home atop of his tiny mattress and mismatched cushions with an old book and a mug of tea and that stray cat that hangs around sitting in his lap. He calls him Soonie. Minho feeds him and lets him in and out as he pleases. It's a nice system.

Of course, he also sees Jeongin at the beach every few nights. Minho thinks that, despite the angel boys without their wings and ashes and laughter in the air that pops like bubbles, it isn't too hard living like this. So he answers, eyes trained on the stars. There is one up there just for him, he knows.

"I don't think so," Jeongin hums at his response. Minho does not truly know what kind of life the boy leads. He knows that there is money for cookies and time to carve by the moonlight at the sea and to visit Minho at the trailer home hidden away. He knows there are parents and two brothers and vocal lessons. He even knows that there are friends and a job at an animal shelter and a dislike for beans. Minho has known Jeongin for a long time, but he does not know intimately the way he lives his life. He wishes he knew, and he wonders if this is the younger's way of opening that line of conversation. Maybe if Minho does not question him in this moment, it will be washed away by the ocean waves and Jeongin will never be willing to speak of it again.

He notices the cuts have stopped bleeding. He does not say anything. Jeongin tilts his body until his head rests on Minho's shoulder. It's so warm, and a sigh of contentment leaves Minho's lips. Somewhere in him, he is glad that Jeongin did not ask before breaking his folding chairs, because he knows he would have said no. He would have missed out on little moments like this. The moments that make this life not so hard to live. They are small, such fleeting nothingness in the film reel of life. They are the ones even the director would have cut out. Minho would never even consider it. They paint a burnt orange too vividly in his memories for him to erase them. He wants them there, even as badly as he wants the royal blue moments that will never occur again. Burnt orange and royal blue just mean so much to him. Yet, somehow, only burnt orange has made its way into the trailer home. Not royal blue, despite the way royal blue came first.

Maybe it's because royal blue never had the chance to see it. But then again, if royal blue hadn't left, then would it even exist?

Minho is certain the answer is no, and he swallows against the tight emotions. Jeongin's slender fingers are now trailing up and down the back of his hand, soothingly. He thinks it must sting, with all those cuts. Minho does not mention it. Jeongin doesn't stop, because that is the sort of person he is. Determined, the type to see things through to the end. He will do what he thinks is important, despite all consequences. This is why Jeongin is Minho's truth.

He is not Minho's rock, or pillar, or support beam, or any of that. Those have been washed away with ashes, but these days Minho thinks his truth is just as important as that old, long-gone rock. Something is so enlightening in the thought. He cannot say what, or why. But it brings an overlying sense of calm, something made of lace and thin paper. It's easily broken but it is beautiful nonetheless. It tastes dusty and sticks in his mouth, and Minho likes it anyway. He clings to it, the way he would to his mother's chest when he was just a scared child. He must be a scared adult now. He doesn't cling to her anymore. Minho is not past that, because he wants to do it. He wants to wrap his fists in her clothes and cry into her breasts until his nose stringy and his breathing is nothing more than little hiccups. It's not the time for that. It won't be again. The regret lies somewhere just out of reach.

But Jeongin doesn't. He is here, abused elegant hands and all. He isn't missing the same pieces that Minho is, but their empty spots are not filled up by each other. They are a messy patchwork. Real. Human. Truth. Burnt orange.

Minho must be purple, he decides with the next crash of the waves. The purple of the jars he puts candles in. It's different from royal blue and burnt orange, and he is neither of those. He knows his identity is different from these, no matter how essential they are to his being. They are significant, but it is also crucial for Minho to separate himself from them. If he doesn't, he will be washed away in browns and greys.

Jeongin turns his head and presses his lips to Minho's sharp cheekbone. He doesn't eat a lot- He doesn't eat enough. They are too prominent, but Minho tries hard. He tries his best, and he sinks into the feeling of the soft contact. It might make it into the director's cut, but it wouldn't make it into the final movie. It would be too little for audiences. To Minho, it was more than enough. He is glad that is life is not a film, because the best parts surely could never fit in. Too much to show in too little time. Even life isn't long enough as it is. For some people- Minho wants some people to have more screen time than they did. He thinks maybe his own life might get a little lengthy just because of the wish to keep that person around. Longer just to make the royal blue portion seem even smaller. He doesn't care. He will live with those colored memories in his mind and his heart.

There is truth by his side, and it's asking him if he's okay. He responds with a smile and burnt orange coloring his vision.


End file.
